Page 55 of Your Wild Omega (The Feral Actress #2)

I’d argue about him calling me Callisto instead of alpha, but I know it’s pointless.

I didn’t win that debate in high school, so I doubt he’d give it up now.

Juan’s designation isn’t clear, and while he’s never smelled like an omega, I’ve always felt a softness for him that omegas usually naturally trigger.

Still, an omega could never work in an industry like this, let alone a rare male omega, so he must be some kind of recessive beta.

Plus, I know for a fact he packs a mean punch. Or used to.

“You’re looking good yourself,” I say. “And I see a bit more art since we last met.” I tap my hands to show what I mean.

Juan holds up his tatted hands and wriggles his fingers, smiling.

“Sì. Who could resist filling blank canvas space?” He beckons me into the consultation room, where his books of past tattoos pile up on the table.

“I want to hear everything, but we can catch up when you come in next. Now, tell me what you’re thinking.

Every juicy detail.” He crooks his fingers in demand. “And take off your shirt.”

I grin as I strip off my jacket and unbutton my shirt.

Juan hums with approval as he takes my left arm in both hands and studies his handiwork. “Bellissimo. Even better than I remember.” Which is funny because one of his books sits open on the table, showing the photo I sent him after the needle swelling healed.

“Well, only the best get a look at this body,” I tell him with a laugh.

His dimples pop. “Look who’s buttering me up,” he says coolly, running his thumb across the tat before releasing me.

The way he puts me at ease reminds me of Rickon, but to a lesser extent. Guess I’m missing my best pal more than I realized, since Rickon came with me for my last tattoo.

Juan slides into the chair on the far side of the table.

“Now, did I hear you right when you said you wanted to add to this one?” He picks up a pen and a piece of paper with guidelines indicating a human’s arm.

He quickly sketches in my existing ink, his pen gliding effortlessly across the paper to recreate the artwork.

“Yes, I want a second clock beneath it. Same style, different time.”

His pen stops moving. “Alpha, I must ask, but the last one was your lament for your father. Please don’t tell me—?”

I smile as I interrupt him. “No, no one died this time. I just want to commemorate an important moment as a reminder.” Well, maybe a piece of me died inside. For reasons I can’t explain, I want to immortalize that loss too.

“Okay, then,” he says softly, pen whisking away again. “What time?”

According to Hale, the court case on the day I met Red began at eleven a.m. Considering I was a few minutes late, I was rejecting my soulmate right on the hour. “Eleven o’clock,” I tell him.

He hums, deep in his creative state, drawing a second clock but nesting it under the first and adding some shadow. The hour and minute hands for the time I requested form under his busy pen.

Juan turns the page my way, spreading his fingers around the second clock and twisting.

“I suggest we tilt it to the left, so the hand position is easier to see,” he says, pointing to show what he means.

“We don’t want to lose them under the first one.

And how about something in the background to connect them together, depending on your tastes? ”

He looks up and aims the pen tip in my direction. “I have to warn you, this will likely come down lower than a short-sleeved dress shirt.” He gets up and circles the table to show me how low on my arm it’s likely to sit. Still on my upper arm, but the base might show.

I hesitate. Is this a risk to my career? Maybe I’ll have to dress more like Hale with his rolled-up long sleeves and skinny ties.

A wry smile possesses my mouth. Who am I kidding? I’m a vest guy, and I wear a suit jacket most of the time. “It will be fine,” I tell Juan. I’ve already decided I want this reminder. “So what kind of background do you recommend?”

He hums under his breath as he retakes his seat and sifts through his photo books. “You’re not a skulls guy and we don’t want flashy things that detract from the clocks.” He points out a few with roses, running water, and geometric lines for inspiration.

“How about nuts?” I mutter, tracing the images.

He blinks at me several times. “I did not take you for a dick art kind of person, alpha. My mistake.”

Heat rises on my neck, and I hold up my hands. “No, I meant like macadamias and almonds.” Representations of Red’s scent.

Juan stares at me until we both laugh in embarrassment. He swipes at his brow as if removing sweat. “I’m so glad we cleared that up before I started drawing.”

“You and me both,” I retort, a flush blazing in my cheeks.

He grunts softly. “Moving right along . . . Nuts would be extremely hard to do well and still see at a glance what they are, but I can try. Anything else?”

He’s still turning pages, and I catch sight of a long flowering branch. I slip my hand into the page before he turns it over. “This?”

“Plum blossom.”

I nod. “I like that. And how about honey?”

After a minute of digging, he turns his folio around to show me a photo of a dripping honey dipper. “That could fit next to your new clock in this space.” He circles the gap left by offsetting the clock.

I watch his pen flash and twirl as he adds the cherry blossom branch behind the two clocks and the honey.

“This is only a rough sketch. I’ll do a couple of designs and see if I can get the nuts to work.” He flashes me a sly grin. “Edible type only.”

That’s a slutty joke waiting to happen, but I leave it alone since we’re both already thinking it.

“Thanks, Juan. I appreciate it. I’ll wait to see the designs.”

“One more question.” He presses his pen tip to my elbow to stop me from rising. “Should I leave room for a third clock?”

My gaze slides down my arm. I already messed up with my scent-matched omega. I can’t picture myself with anyone else to create the joyous moments I’d rather have tattooed here, instead of these painful ones.

But when I open my mouth to say no, a different story comes out. “You never know what might happen,” I say.

Juan nods, dimples showing. “That’s true, alpha. The future is a mysterious beast.” He stands up and stretches. “We’re all done here. I’ll send you the designs and you can let me know.”

My phone vibrates and when I see it’s from Hale, I excuse myself and flag down a taxi while answering.

Hale doesn’t even bother with greetings. “Callisto, minor problem.”

His dry tone says it’s not small at all, and an uncomfortable buzz in my chest revs into gear. “Lay it on me,” I say, wishing I didn’t have to hear bad news.

“The courthouse clerks screwed up. They scheduled the State vs. Fibbistachi case but the notification seems to have gone AWOL.”

My inner nervous static explodes into an entire hive of activity. “When?” I grind out as I open the taxi door.

“Two weeks.”

Fuck me.

“And that’s not the worst of it.” He pauses for breath but then plunges on. “And he’s got Pike defending him.”

I freeze, balancing over the curb, one foot in the car. Suspended in purgatory. My hand curls into a fist as his words echo through my stunned brain.

“Did you hear me? Pike, as in Antonio Pike, the—”

“The country’s best criminal defense lawyer.

” I swallow a lump. “Yeah, I heard you.” Normally I wouldn’t be intimidated, no matter who the counsel was, but this case isn’t like other cases.

I should’ve known Ray would have the money to employ someone like Pike.

He must have made millions selling Red’s haze over the years.

Hale hisses in annoyance. “I’ll have to get the list of witnesses submitted by the end of the week. Should I put Red Jones’s name on it?”

“No.” I shake my head, forgetting he can’t see me. “Leave her off.” The traumatized omega is trying to move forward, not get dragged back into the depths of that hell. I’ll take care of this myself, one way or another.

I shake off my paralysis and drop into the taxi. “Can you stay late tonight?”

“Sounds like a whole bunch of late nights,” Hale mutters darkly.

And he’s right, because we don’t have a case at all.